


How the Hound Slayed the Bird

by TimmyJaybird



Series: The Awakening [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-31
Updated: 2013-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-21 22:51:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/905893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TimmyJaybird/pseuds/TimmyJaybird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time is running short, and the Hound still has one final lesson for his Little Bird.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How the Hound Slayed the Bird

“He whimpers in his sleep?”

“Aye, when the nightmares are bad enough. Sounds like a scared kitten.” Sansa giggled, leaning against the stone walls of the keep. It was past dark, though not their dangerous hour after high moon. They could still easily be seen, discovered by anyone not a babe in bed already.

That suited Sansa fine, she was enjoying talking with him, though she wondered if he leaned too close, if she touched him too much. It wouldn’t do to have rumors, would it?

_Perhaps it would. At least it would keep people occupied_.

Of late, he would tell her things of Joffrey, the way he whimpered from nightmares, the way he tripped over himself in the morning. Little things that made her giggle, filled her with joy at his embarrassment.

“If you’re there during his wedding night, you’ll have to tell me how quickly he fails his little rose.”

He smirked at that, leaning in close. “Little bird, that is nothing a proper lady should ask about.” She smiled and rang a finger down his chest, along the leather and cloth he wore, off duty for the evening.

“That’s why a proper lady isn’t asking.” She saw the flash of heat that caused in his eyes, and smiled herself. It was true though, Sansa knew better than to call herself a proper lady, not after her many nights with the Hound. The night at the sept had opened her eyes, and as she had returned in the morning for prayer with Margery, she had done nothing but remember his hands and mouth, his cock between her lips. She had blushed furiously when saw so much as glanced at the statue of the Stranger, had been unable to look the statue of the Maiden in the eyes.

So be it. Sansa was not upset with these changes. She felt less a girl, more a woman now, a woman who knew how to be touched, and how to return those caresses. She’d be pleasing to Willas Tyrell, she assumed. Though she knew better than to speak those thoughts aloud. Just as Sansa didn’t like other women’s names on the Hound’s lips, he hated hearing her speak of these secret Tyrell betrothal plans. At least he had promised not to tell the Lannisters, though at times, Sansa wished he would, so it wouldn’t happen. It meant she’d be leaving him.

“I can hope I don’t have to witness that,” he said, “bloody Joffrey squirming around on top of that girl. I’d rather spend the evening with a pox ridden whore.”

“You could just spend it with me,” Sansa said, and he dared to kiss her forehead.

“By then you’ll be in Highgarden, little bird, with your own rose.” The venom in his words was easy to feel, to taste, and Sansa didn’t blame him. She said nothing at that. She remembered when she had first told him, a night in his chambers. She’d had her blood, and had spent the night pleasing him instead of letting him touch her, and he had allowed her to curl up in his arms after. She’d told him all of it then, how the Tyrells intended to wed her to Willas, how someday she’d be the Lady of Highgarden.

The curses he’d spoken after his long silence had been enough to make her want to visit the sept, or the godswoods, and ask whatever gods were listening for forgiveness. And while he liked to act as if his anger hadn’t happened, she did not forget. She remembered it when he touched her, and it made her want to stay. At least someone valued her company, even if it was just for her cunt.

_You have the mouth of a whore now_ she thought of herself, but didn’t really care. Not anymore.

“They’ll take you soon, I’ve seen the little Queen and her birds chirping.” He tangled a hand in her hair, and knew his time was running thin. He’d had fun with their game, but if he didn’t finish it soon, Sansa would slip through his fingers like water, and be gone before he’d taken everything she had to offer. “Come to the godswoods with me,” his hand ran down her shoulder, her side, to grip her waist, “one last time.”

How could Sansa refuse? She nodded, and he gave her hip a parting squeeze, than turned and left her, just as they heard heavy footfalls in the distance. She returned to her chambers, lay down in her bed to enjoy the growing dark, knowing their witching hour simply by the silence that fell thick over the keep.

Sansa made her way to the godswoods with ease. One guard stopped her, giving her long, heavy looks of disapproval for her nightly visit, but approval of a more carnal kind. Sansa could see it now, the same type of glint she had seen in the Hound’s eyes. Once, in the past, she never would have seen that, never would have known how to conduct herself to play it down for her safety-

Or encourage it, for her advantage.

When she stepped through the thick, wiry trees, he was waiting for her, drinking strong, sour wine, sitting on the bench where he’d first touched her. She sat down next to him, drank the wine he offered, and wondered why he had not begun ripping at her clothing the instant he saw her. That seemed to be his custom, she was given precious few moments alone with him before something was exposed, often at the expense of her dress. She’d had so many torn her maids were beginning to tease her about being clumsy and always having them catch on things.

_How would they react if they knew it was because the Hound cannot keep his hands off me? That he cannot wait the time it takes to unlace a dress?_ Sansa could see their wicked stares, and it made her smile. Part of her just burned for someone, _anyone_ to see her wickedness, so she could stop hiding it and lust after this man openly, as some of the other ladies about her did, both of common birth and higher. While Margery’s flock spoke of the men they fancied, Sansa had to stay quiet and pretend herself so pious she did not even see men as something to desire.

_Maybe if the men surrounding us were not boys. This is the only man I know_.

She leaned against his arm, wrapped her two delicate ones around it, kissed his clothed shoulder. He drank the wine, stared into the distance, and Sansa let the silence consume them. _Have I angered him?_ she wondered, _So much that he doesn’t touch me?_

“Is there something wrong, Sandor?” Sansa asked, his name feeling like velvet on her tongue. She’d taken to calling him more by name in private, even when he didn’t command her to. Usually it drove him wild. Now, he only looked at her. There were embers burning in those dark eyes, hot, smoldering, but something else, something heavy that made Sansa’s chest ache, in an unpleasant way.

He leaned over, kissed her gently, his hands working on her cloak. He freed it from her shoulders, reached behind her, worked on the lacings of her gown.

_Something is truly wrong._ He never took his time. Still, the feeling of his rough fingers as they trailed along her spine made her smile, and she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him slowly, letting the heat build within them calmly.

He broke away from her only to guide the dress down her arms and chest, to her waist. He was looking at her with those dark eyes, the way he’d looked at her the night the blackwater burned. Sansa felt her chest grow tight.

“What’s wrong?” she whispered, one hand reaching up to cup his scarred cheek. He kissed her wrist, and when he spoke, it was a raspy whisper.

“This is our last night together.”

Sansa shook her head quickly, wanting to deny it instantly. “No,” she said, “No.” She reached up with her other hand, cupped his face. “ _No_. Don’t say that. It’s not! It could be months before the Tyrells decide to send me away.”

He laughed, filled her head with what was once a sweet sound, albeit only to her, now laced with sorrow.

“They’ve waited long enough. You’ll be gone soon, little bird.”

“Than I won’t go!” She stared at him, her eyes blue fire. _What am I saying?_ “I’ll tell Margery I don’t want to wed her brother, that I don’t want to go to Highgarden.” _And forsake your only way out of King’s Landing and away from the Lannisters? Are you mad?_

He was still laughing. “You’re stupid, girl,” he said, “to think such things. You’d never give up a lord for a bloody _dog_.” He tore at her dress now, ripping it further down her hips. Sansa stared, felt him grab her waist and lift her roughly, tear the clothing away, attack her neck with his teeth. She whimpered and squirmed, tried to push him away, as delicious as it felt to have him trying to ravish her. Sansa was not done, she had things to say.

“Stop fighting girl,” he said, ripping the dress down the remainder of her legs, tearing her smallclothes in one quick movement, leaving her naked before him. “Just play the wolf bitch you are, and let your Hound fuck you.”

Sansa felt her breath leave her quickly, felt him push a finger inside her. She squirmed, trying not to groan. She needed to say more, needed to make him see, needed...

Him. Just him.

Giving in, Sansa spread her thighs, dared to reach down and touch herself while he finger worked carefully inside her. His dark eyes grew larger, hungrier, and he kissed her furiously. “That’s a good little bird,” he soothed, his free hand unlacing his breeches. He pulled out of her only to tear his own clothing off, and Sansa watched, feeling the heat of her sex spreading through out her body.

When he returned, naked, he pushed her back onto the becnhs so she lay on it, and slipped between her thighs, bending down to devour her with his eager tongue. She squirmed, cried out, rested her legs over his shoulder as his hands dug angry red half moons into her hips. The slight agony was sweet, coupled with his honeyed kisses. Sansa relished it, the way he brought her so quickly to that moment-

And then he pulled away, and she cried out angrily, sitting up. She glared at him, opened her mouth to protest, and was silence with his mouth, heavy on hers. She closed her eyes, gripped his shoulders, was about to forgive him, when she felt his hips between her thighs, and the head of his manhood pressing against her entrance.

 _No!_ Sansa squirmed, pulling back. “No!” she cried out, trying to scoot away but having no where to go. “No, you- you can’t!”

“I’ve taken everything else, little bird,” he growled, “Why hold this back as well?”

 _Because without a maidenhead I cannot marry, I cannot escape this wretched city and those bastardly lions. Without a maidenhead, I’m damned._ “Willas will _know_ , and I’ll never be able to escape.”

“Just moments ago you offered to stay.” He gripped her chin with one hand, holding her face steady, keeping her gaze locked with his. “You’re lying little bird, and you know I _hate_ liars.”

Sansa swallowed the lump in her throat. She was lying, she just wished she knew which was the lie and which was the truth. Did he want to keep her maidenhead, or did she want to stay and play to lusty wolf bitch?

She didn’t want either.

“Not like this,” she said, reaching up, grabbing his wrist. “ _Not like this_.” He stared at her, eyes hard, but withdrew his hips ever so slightly. Sansa reached up for him, pulled him down to kiss her again. Yes, if she was going to give away her maidenhood, that one thing these bloody men seemed to cherish so, it would be under her rules, her command. The Hound would do as she bid.

_Or he’ll get nothing._

He tipped her head back as he kissed her, tongue delving into her mouth, one hand on her breasts. Sansa sighed and squirmed, letting him caress her, stroke her skin to tingling. The fire between her legs burned hotter, and then his hand was there, touching her again. She shivered, whimpered. Her hand reached between them, grasped his aching manhood, held him against her entrance.

“Look at me,” she whispered against his lips, words that struck down to the pit of his gut- a command he’d asked of her so many times. He obeyed, leaning back just enough to break their lips’ contact and stare into her haunting blue eyes.

He stared, felt as if time had stopped, the chill in the air turning to ice against his skin. His eyes swam black, and Sansa saw him enthroned beneath the Stranger, in the empty sept, a king of the most terrifying kind, a god of death and destruction, made of ash and stone and bloody steel.

She lost her breath, and before she lost her nerve, guided him into her, lowering herself over his manhood. She was hot and wet and _tight_ , enough to drive the Hound to madness. She grabbed her chin with one hand, held her still until he was fully inside her, felt her quiver. She hadn’t cried out, despite when he tore her maidenhead, though the tears welled in the corners of her eyes. They tumbled down her rosy cheeks, but her eyes were firm, hardening like his, two crystalline storms dancing with his own black thunder.

He moved slowly. She didn’t wince, though he felt her hands gripping at him, nails digging into flesh. He should stop, he should let her adjust to the feeling of being stretched so open, get used to the ache, but _gods_ he couldn’t. He kissed her again, stifling his own groans as her muscles clenched him, realizing she felt far more perfect than he had imagined.

“It hurts,” he said to her, knowing. She bit her lip, but her eyes didn’t waver. Instead her hand reached for his hip, pulled her to hi faster, drove him in deeper-

She tossed her head back and moaned, and that was all he ever needed. He attacked her neck with his mouth, one arm wrapping around her to prop her up, his cock driving faster, deeper into her. Sansa raked her nails over his back, leaving bright crimson lines, nearly breaking the skin. He growled low in his throat, bit at the skin of her shoulder, made her nearly scream at the sudden burst of pain, coupled with the achingly sweet pleasure he was filling her with.

Sansa wrapped her legs around him, breath escaping her in heavy pants. This wasn’t slow and soft like she had always dreamed- there were no kind words, no lover’s whispers. The caresses were burning hot with need, the words filled with a lusty venom, his hands rough. This was no knight, no lord, not the man she had dreamed to give herself too.

This was Sansa’s personal Stranger, her own god of little deaths, and be damned to the seven hells, she preferred this reality to her childhood fantasies. But Sansa did not fit- not the sweet girl who had quivered under his wondering hands at first. Not the girl who had never seen a man naked, who did not know how he could love her body so perfectly.

Her Hound deserved a Wolf, and she was determined to give him one.

She squeezed her legs around his waist, ground her hips toward him, her hands scratching down his chest now. He hissed, growled, shoved his cock deeper inside her. Sansa cried out and let one hand drop between them, pleasuring herself as he had taught her with his mocking voice, what felt like eons ago.

“Fuck little bird,” he groaned, eyes darting between them, watching her. She smirked, a smile that should have graced _his_ face, not hers. Had he seen it, it may have driven his heart mad to a heart attack, but his eyes watched the way her fingers moved with their growing skill over her own sensitive flesh.

She was too bloody hot, so warm and tight, too much for him to handle. Too much for the first night. The Hound felt like he could explode already, cursed himself because he wanted to fuck her until the sun rose red as her tight nipples in the sky. Wanted to fuck her until the castle woke to her sweet cries. Let the bloody Seven and the old gods both wake up to her hungry cries and cunt.

He pushed her hand away and touched her himself, his calloused finger exactly what Sansa needed. She gasped and pushed against his hand, his cock, reached up and dug her fingers into his hair, pulling him violently down to her. The way she pulled sent hot stings through his scalp, like fire, and he bit her lip in return.

She wrapped her hands around his neck, pulled herself up to his good ear, and whispered in the heaviest, neediest voice he had ever heard from a woman,

“Spill your seed inside me.”

It wasn’t a request. It was a command. His little bird was commanding him, and the Hound was not one to deny her. He thrust deep into her and growled low in his throat, the rumbles reverberating through out his chest. His seed spilled hot inside her, as her nails dug into his skin, her hips bucking wildly, muscles contracting rhythmically around him as her own release swept over her.

The two collapsed down, Sansa turning to a limp doll on the stone bench, the Hound on his knees before her. Their breaths mingled in the chill of the night, panting still.

_It’s done_. Sansa wondered if she had expected lights to erupt in the sky, for a singer to appear and serenade her for her beauty and love. Instead she got the cold night’s silence, the sound of the Hound’s breathing and her own, and a half moon with a few flickering stars.

It was nothing like she had dreamt. It was not romantic, it was not something to sing of. All the more appropriate it had been the Hound to take her, and not some lord or knight. Shatter the whole image, her dreams and fantasies, Sansa knew it was better that way.

_The world isn’t what you thought, you stupid girl_.

Sansa sighed. Her cunt ached, in a sweet way. She wouldn’t deny it had felt good, every way the Hound touched her felt good. She wouldn’t deny that if she felt able, she wouldn’t beg him to take her again. But she would deny that the act had been something like of the old tales of her youth.

He leaned over her, kissed her cheek, her neck. She could see all the angry marks on his body from her nails. Some had broken the skin. She blushed.

“Pardon,” she said, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“You did,” he chuckled, “mean to hurt me. I saw it in you- don’t deny it.”

She looked away. True, she had meant to hurt him a bit, to mark his body with little scars only she’d know the secrets to. But from his groans, she had assumed he liked it.

“I want you to have scars only I’ll understand,” she admitted.

“Anyone with eyes will understand them girl.”

She frowned. “They won’t _understand_ them. They’ll just create their own stories for where they came from. All the stories will start with a woman, but they’ll never know who, or where, or when, or how she loved scarring you. They’ll never know the truth, only the story.”

The Hound smiled at that, a sad sort of smile. He reached up, played with a lock of his little bird’s hair. She didn’t seem so little now. She wasn’t peeping at him in the same droll song, she sung wisdom, truth he had hoped she would find before she left him. A girl as young and naive as her, so drunk on dreams, would never make it beyond the city, or even within it’s walls.

Best slay the beautiful creature and let it’s shell live with the truth, than die drunk on fantasy. Still, it hurt a bit, to see so much of her innocence gone now. He’d taken it, every drop she had left, down to that bloody maidenhead she’d promised to some stinking rose.

“When you’re bedding your Rose lord,” he said, the words tasting like bile, “don’t scar him.”

Sansa smiled. “You’re the only one I’d like yo mark as mine own,” she admitted, and let him pull her to him, holding her. It was oddly tender, having the outward affection their fucking had lacked. Sansa settled into his arms. She knew she’d be gone soon, she knew she wouldn’t stay, even if she wanted to. The Hound had killed Sansa Stark as she knew her, left her body as an offering in a cold and empty sept to the god of death, to the old gods under their heart trees, to himself in his dark as pitch chambers.

The Sansa he held now was no bird. She was a wolf, and though a hound was a far better match than a rose, Sansa knew better than to dream. Instead she kissed one of the scratches she’d left on his chest, and enjoyed the feeling of his strong arms around her small body, of the feeling of the only man she’d ever know among a sea of boys.

Days later, Sansa Stark was married to Tyrion Lannister.

**Author's Note:**

> One final part still to come- even if this seems like the end.
> 
> And yes, the sex lacked that magic on purpose. I wasn't just being lazy :)


End file.
